Attack of the Columba livia domestica

Day 1

5 AM

scrith-scratch. scritch-scritch-scratch.

roo. grroo.

Day 2

8 AM

CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

I leapt up, eyes gummed shut with sleep, heart going like a triphammer on Ritalin, adrenaline washing through my blood. Not pleasant. Damn near killing on a sunday morning. I actually had to struggle to draw that first breath.

CLAPCLAP

clunk

roo.

grroo-roo.

CLAPCLAPCLAPclapclap

scratch

roo

clap clap clap...

Look around. Nothing. Roommate fast asleep. Clock ticking. Birds chirping. Distant muted traffic. Lying back and dozing off.

Day 3

6 AM

CRASH!

CLAPCLAPCLAP

Argh! Huh-what-mmf-splutter. Wide-eyed jerky vision flickering around. Getting up.

Pad quietly into corridor. Door closed. Bolted. Nobody. Clothesline slightly swaying.

Peek into kitchen. Vision blurry, eyes watering with sleep and fright. Sense of whiteness.

Small, quiet but very deliberate movement.

groo

scritch-scratch

Quietly move back. Slowly reach into the dark behind me, fingers skittering across the door edge, the wall, the wire, onto the switches. Fingertips sliding over plug, switch, outside light, kitchen light.

Press.

Click

brightness

Sudden violent explosion of sound and motion into my face!

CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

scratch-clunk

clapclapclap clap clap

gasp. gasp. gasp... gasp... breathe... breathe.

Look.

Smashed jar on ground. Salt everywhere. Nobody.

Day 4

8:30 AM

Alarm missed. Late. Struggle up.

Mouth dry and tasting like dessicated ashtray. Cold water. In the fridge.

Head for kitchen.

pad-pad-pad-squelch.

Stop. Lift foot. Warm gooey wet sensation mixed with small soft lumps.

pad-hop pad-hop pad-hop wassssshhhhhhh

roo? groo-roo. roo.

Look up.

Pair of black beady and completely insane eyes looking into mine less than a foot away. Grey feathery body. Cracked and veined pinkish-gray skin. Yellowed claws.

groo! roo-groo-roo!

Pigeons are in my home.

Day 4

11 PM

Close all windows

1 AM

scratch-scratch. scratch-scratch.

roo.

scratch-scratch.

Mumble unintelligibly and turn over.

scratch-scratch.

roo.

scratch.

scratch-scratch.

scratch.

Leaping up staggering into bathroom light explosive flutter of wings from window silence

Sleep.

Day 6

2 AM

Wake. Bladder painfully full.

Complete darkness. Silence. Dogs barking in the distance.

Pad into bathroom. Light. Peeing.

roo.

Look up.

It's there. Six inches from my face. Sitting on pipe. Watching me. Not moving. Watching. Looking in my eyes.

Heart jumping straight into throat. Flow clamping painfully closed. Spontaneous backward lateral jump putting back of head straight into edge of door.

Flashing lights, stars.

Pain.

groo.

CLAPCLAPCLAP struggle clapclap clap clap silence

Don't sleep for two hours.

Day 7

Stuff T-shirt into hole in bathroom window. Close all windows.

9 PM

Back home.

Open door.

Darkness

Hot stuffy, dry, and, yes, feathery smell.

And... something else.

Something's in here.

groo.

I left it in the house

Lights

Crap.

Pigeon crap. Everywhere. On my books. My electric drill. The DVD player. The floor. TV. Stove. Kitchen counter.

roo.

Gaze drawn inoxerably upwards, slowly like my dawning understanding.

Shoerack. Shelves. Wall.

And... loft.

groo.

Clamber up. Look inside.

Five beady black homicidal avian glares.

It's a nest.

What do I do now?

wannabe wannabe

I remember when I used to look up to these people, wanting to look like them, be like them, be them. An yesterday I caught myself dismissing them as wannabes, remembering how I used to idolize them.

All I want to know is -

If I went from aspiring to, to aspiring away from; if I went from one end to the other;

Why can't I remember ever actually being them?

a blog on a blog

I was looking at my two blogs recently, and they're so - starkly different.

Look at the travel blog, for instance. There's a distinct sequence on events, a process. Each post has a series of things behind it.

An event. A journey, a trek. An effort made in doing that.

Photos taken, transferred, cleaned, and uploaded on flickr.

People. Different people, from different places, with different stories.

Research. Where did we go, what is it, where it came from, what is there and what was there. A history.

Remembrance. The incidents, the stories, the words.

And last and least - the post.

There's a discipline.

And then, look at this one. It rambles. Posts for the sake of posting. Anytime. On anything. Random.

The question is - can you even decide which is better? Or if that adjective is even relevant.

Free flowing or disciplined?

Random or restricted?

Blank verse or haiku?

Maybe I should start applying some rules to this. Restrict each post to an event, an evocative image, an emotional connect.